Blood and Bullets
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: The perfect crime... or is it? Sherlock Holmes has been shot and Dr. Watson must save him; but the bullet has disappeared!


"Holmes!" Dr. Watson ran to his fallen colleagues' side in an uncharacteristic mixture of fear and worry.

The great Sherlock Holmes lays helpless on his back on the icy street in the middle of London, with a pool of blood blossoming from beneath his clenched fingers over his chest. The detective had been shot!

"Holmes?" Watson struggled to remove his friend's hands from the wound but his heart sank as his the once strong hands suddenly relaxed beneath his own, falling lifelessly to his sides on the street. "Holmes? Stay awake! Please, open your eyes!"

The detective did not respond. His pale face remained expressionless, the only sign that Watson had that his friend still lived was the shallow breaths he could feel rising and falling from Holmes' bleeding chest.

Watson looked around; the street had been deserted of all activity due to the blizzard. There was no one to be seen, no one to help Sherlock Holmes. Watson felt desperate but determined.

"Help! Help! Someone?_ Anyone_? Please, I need help!" His voice echoed pitifully down the empty streets and through the barren alleyways. He returned his focus on the bleeding detective laying before him. "Holmes? Please, hold on my friend. You'll be fine! I just need to stop the bleeding…"

Watson carefully pulled back Holmes' coat, tore open his vest and unbuttoned his shirt to examine the injury which rested just below Holmes' heart. Watson took the scarf from around his own neck and wadded it into a ball before pressing it into the bullet wound. Holmes moaned in pain as Watson replaced his shirt while he continued to apply pressure. Watson felt guilty for hurting his friend but at the same time he was relieved that his friend was still alive and conscious enough to be aware of what was happening to him.

"Watson…" Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. "Cold…"

"You're cold?" This didn't surprise Watson, they were out in a blizzard and Holmes had already lost a significant amount of blood. Watson took off his coat and draped it over his friend. "It's okay Holmes; I'll get you warmed up."

"No… Watson." Holmes couldn't open his eyes, he didn't have the strength. "Cold… Wound…"

"I don't understand." He saw Holmes' body start to relax, a sign that he was fading fast. Watson patted Holmes' face. "Holmes, wake up! What do you mean by 'cold'? I need you to tell me."

Sherlock Holmes remained silent in the streets. His chest was stained red, covered in his own blood. The same blood that stained the hands of the good doctor.

Desperate to save the life of his best friend and one of the keenest minds to ever grace the face of the Earth, Watson put his arm under Holmes' shoulders and sat the wounded man up. He slung the detectives lifeless arm around his own neck before he placed his second arm under the dying man's legs. He lifted the helpless form of his best friend into his arms and trekked slowly, heavily, back to the safety of Baker Street.

As a doctor he knew all too well how important it was for Holmes to receive proper medical treatment, but as the detective's only friend he also understood that a hospital visit was out of the question. With the chilling winds blowing mercilessly against the doctor and ice stinging his face Watson had at last arrived back to the shelter of their home: 221b Baker Street. He had no choice but to the force the door open with a kick, he couldn't bear to loosen his grip on Holmes. Once inside he saw the scared face of Mrs. Hudson running toward him. The sound of the breaking door sent her flying to the source expecting a burglar, instead she saw two of her tenants caked in snow and ice and blood. Their faces raw from wind burns.

"Good Lord, doctor!" The landlady saw Holmes in his arms; she covered her mouth to stifle a scream and a sob. "What in God's name has happened to him?"

"He has been shot Mrs. Hudson. I must remove the bullet before it's too late." Watson had begun to climb the stairs as he answered the frightened woman's question. His leg aching mercilessly as he ascended the stairs with his patient in his arms and the chill that ate away at his joints.

"Doctor, shouldn't he be in the hospital?"

Watson fought his urge to pause on the stairs, he wanted to answer her in the affirmative but he wanted to respect Holmes' wishes. "There is not enough time to get him to a hospital." He hated himself for lying to the sweet landlady but his options were limited.

"What can I do to help, doctor?"

"I will require clean water, towels and as many blankets as you can spare." Watson had reached the top of the stairs.

"Right away doctor!"

Using his shoulder as leverage while he awkwardly turned the handle on the door, Watson was able to push the door to Holmes' private chamber open with little grace or coordination. Walking into the room, pushing past the piles of paper and stacks of books, the doctor laid his patient down onto the already messy bed.

Dr. Watson threw his own coat from Holmes' still form to the side of the room. Carefully he unbuttoned Holmes' shirt once more to look at the wound. The bleeding had stopped: the combination of the constant pressure and cold air was the only thing that saved Holmes from bleeding to death out on the street. Both the scarf and shirt were forever marred by a sickening crimson hue.

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the opened doorway and stopped dead in her tracks. She had been able to see that Sherlock Holmes had been gravely injured but she was unable to anticipate how horrid the actual injury would be.

Watson sensed the landlady's presence; he looked over at her and gauged her reaction. "Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady looked at Watson with a twinge of embarrassment on her face. "Here you are doctor." In her arms was a large pile of folded blankets, with folded towels on top and a kettle of warmed water in her hand.

"Thank you. Please set everything on the table. I will require some privacy."

"Yes, of course." After delivering the requested items Mrs. Hudson discreetly walked out of the room and quietly shut the door behind her.

"Okay Holmes, let's see what can be done, shall we?" Watson rolled up the sleeves on his own shirt and began to physically examine the wound.

His hands pressed against Holmes' chest looking for any sign of internal bleeding or swelling, and more importantly, trying to find the exact location of the bullet. Watson couldn't find any foreign matter in the wound! He couldn't understand how Holmes could be shot, with no bullet to be recovered. Watson was growing worried that the bullet had embedded itself in either a rib or one of Holmes' organs. Fearing the worst, Watson decided he'd have to look _inside_ the wound to find what needed to be done.

Holmes remained unconscious, blissfully unaware of the painful procedure his body was forced to endure.

Reluctantly Watson had retrieved several gadgets from Holmes' own kit of tools, fortunately Holmes tended to keep actual medical devices and supplies at hand. Using the utmost care Watson opened the clotting wound with a crude pair of forceps; he looked into the wound and followed the bullet's path with the light of a nearby candle, then reluctantly checked the wound with his own fingers. Nothing. No bullet rested inside Holmes' chest.

Dr. Watson couldn't understand why, or how, such an event was even possible. But for now the questions would need to wait as Holmes himself could not.

Using the water and a clean towel, Watson rinsed away the blood and did his best to disinfect the wound. He applied sterile dressing to the bullet wound and wrapped his friend's chest with heavy gauze. He placed his ear to his friend's slowly rising and falling chest, he was listening for any sign of complication or congestion. Though he never put much stock in the concept himself, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be the luckiest man in London. Despite the severity of the injury and its location being so near his heart, he seemed to be suffering no other ill effect from the bullet wound.

"Holmes? Can you hear me?" Watson gently tried to rouse his friend but the detective was still too weak to open his eyes, let alone wake up.

His doctorly instincts began to override his emotional hesitance toward treating a friend. He placed his hand on Holmes' forehead and noted that despite his exposure to the chill in the air and the blood loss, he seemed rather warm.

There was a subtle knocking at the door. Mrs. Hudson slowly opened the door and peered inside. When she saw that Sherlock Holmes had been patched up and seemed to be resting, she entered the room. "How is he doctor?" She was speaking in a quiet tone so she wouldn't disturb Holmes.

"He's holding his own. You know him almost as well as I. He won't let something as ordinary as a bullet put him in the grave." Watson tried to give her a reassuring smile but his sad eyes made the effort moot.

"Is there anything else that I might do?"

"No. Thank you Mrs. Hudson, he needs to rest now. I will watch over him."

"Very well, if you need assistance do not hesitate to call." The landlady closed the door and left the doctor to tend to his patient once more.

Dr. Watson began layering the blankets over the unconscious detective. He knew that if the wound had become infected from the 'bullet', then a common cold would surely be the death of him.

The grim night had only been intensified by the howling wind that battered the house and the icy sheaths that covered the windows. Watson tried to resist the urge to sleep, he feared that if he were to allow his eyes to close for even an instant that Holmes would die from his injury. The softness of the armchair was only tempting him further to the wondrous escape of sleep. But Dr. Watson could be as stubborn as Sherlock Holmes when he wanted to be, he would stay awake as long as his friend required his help.

As the light of the rising sun filled the room Watson felt the warm glow creep across the floor and shine onto his face. Through sleepy eyes he looked to his patient who seemed to be sleeping comfortably. He rubbed his weary eyes with his hands and addressed his resting comrade. "Well, it's another day Sherlock Holmes. Think you'll be summoned to take on another case?"

"Undoubtedly." The voice was but a whisper.

Watson's hands fell away as his eyes widened with surprise. He didn't expect to receive an answer from anyone let alone the man who had just been to the brink of death. He rose from his chair and walked over to the bed where Holmes slept. Unburying his friend's arm from beneath the mound of blankets, Watson took up the detective's wrist and checked his pulse.

"Holmes? Can you hear me?"

"Obviously." He voice was still quiet and weak.

"Are you in any pain?"

"No more so than usual."

Watson smiled. "How do you feel?"

"Warm."

Concerned Watson put his hand back to Holmes' forehead.

"You're temperature seems normal to me. A little elevated due to the excessive blankets no doubt, but not infection."

"I'm talking about my chest."

"Your chest is warm?" He looked at his friend completely confused.

"It was freezing last night."

"You were out in a blizzard and you did suffer great blood loss."

"No. I felt cold before I was shot."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I stand corrected: I felt cold _as_ I was shot."

"That's… Whenever a person is shot; they describe the experience as an intense_ burning_. Yet, you felt _cold_?"

"Yes. It was as cold as ice."

"How is that possible?"

"Because my dear Watson, the bullet itself was _composed_ of ice."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I do not smell the distinct aroma of gunpowder mixed with blood. Nor do I see a bullet covered in my blood amongst your used medical tools."

Watson rubbed his chin, his mind was racing. "An ice_ bullet_. How is that even possible?"

"As you know Watson, a bullet cannot travel without a combustible force to give said bullet its energy."

"Correct, which means an ice bullet is impossible because the force would cause the bullet to melt away before it even had a chance to escape the barrel."

"The concept of an ice bullet is 'improbable', not 'impossible' Watson." Holmes began to cringe with pain as he became more and more awake. Watson put his hand to Holmes' chest to check his breathing.

"Do you require any medication for the pain?"

"No. Not at the moment. As I was saying Watson, an ice bullet is very much a possibility but only if the bullet is fired by using an alternative mean."

"Such as?"

"You and I have both seen some of the most ingenious, if not barbarically original lengths a person would go to in order to kill another human being." He forced a grin through his pain. "Do you recall our little discovery in the case you so charmingly called 'Thor Bridge'?"

"I do. The jealous wife faked her own murder to frame her husband's mistress. She placed a gun with a spent round in the mistress' dressing closet, left a note to meet at the bridge and then shot herself after she rigged a clever little contraption to pull the gun out of her hand and into the water nearby."

"Very good Watson, your memory is quite admirable."

"But what does that have to do with you getting shot with… ice?"

"The point in the matter is a person can find a way to get what they want by any means necessary. Allow me to explain: A bullet can be traced back to the gun that fired it, if I were to be shot and killed no doubt Scotland Yard would be in full gear to capture my assassin. But if there were no bullet to trace back to said assassin the shooter would remain free and beyond conviction."

"So he used a bullet that would vanish after it had met its target."

"Precisely, bravo!" He cringed once more as his excitement triggering another bout of pain.

"But _how_ did he fire the bullet?"

"I would wager that the man had used a modified sniper rifle. He removed the firing pin as well as the need for gunpowder and chose an alternative means of projection. Perhaps a concentrated force of air."

"You were shot with ice… that was propelled by the air?" Watson was beginning to chuckle at the incredibly ludicrous theory that Holmes had developed.

"Yes. By using the air there would be no sound of a gunshot and the ice would not melt."

"Brilliant Holmes. But can you prove it? Even if your theory is correct, wouldn't the ice itself lack the proper density to enter the human body without shattering?"

"Did you hear a gunshot?" Holmes raised his brow to Watson's reluctance.

Watson paused for a moment thinking back to the night before. "No."

"Neither did I. Did you find the bullet?"

"No." His voice was getting lower.

"Watson, when you tended to my wound did you find any ice or more likely, excessive water pooled near the bullet's entrance?"

"No. All I saw was blood."

"By Jove Watson, _that's it_!"

"_What's_ it?"

"The bullet. It was not composed of ice after all."

"Then... what _was_ the bullet made of?"

"Blood."

"Pardon me... _Blood_?"

"Indeed. What better way to eliminate evidence than by having it destroyed, and any trace of it being hidden in a place where no one would ever find it out of place to begin with?"

Watson ran his hand through his hair. "Blood is literally thicker than water. Being composed of a denser material the blood could theoretically be strong enough pierce a person's flesh."

"And Watson, do not forget that with the uncharacteristically cold weather we've been having, the shooter could easily collect and freeze his own blood in a hollowed bullet shell. No one would be any the wiser."

"He… He hid the blood evidence, with _your_ blood." Watson looked at Holmes absolutely stunned." Holmes, if this is true, how can we find the shooter responsible? How can we even bring him to justice without the evidence?"

"We can't." Holmes closed his eyes, he was tired. But his smile never left his face.

"There's nothing we can do and yet you lay there smiling knowing that the man who tried to kill you will get away with it."

"Watson, I smile because this was the _perfect crime _and yet I was able to see right through it."

Dr. Watson just shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little. "Well, at least you're in good spirits. And you'll make a full recovery, in about six weeks."

"Six weeks? Watson I cannot be laid up in this room like an invalid, there are crimes that require my full attention."

"If the cases are truly that important, then they can wait for you."

"You don't really believe that, do you Watson?"

"I do. If not for you, it's for the sake of trying my best to keep you in bed until you heal properly."

"Come now Watson, do you really think I would attempt to flee your care?"

"Yes I do. And I will take this moment to inform you that I will not hesitate to tie you down to the bed if I must."

Holmes just stared at Watson trying to read the sincerity on his friend's face. He wasn't joking!

"Very well Watson. I shall stay in bed but only on the condition that you keep me company."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

**_-The End_**

**Author's Note: **This was inspired by an episode of "Bones". I have only seen it once so if I got some of the facts a little wrong, don't hesitate to tell me so I can correct them. As for the actual timeline for when any form of 'air compressors' were first built, I have no idea but I'm fairly certain that the concept was not too far off to be feasible at this point in time.


End file.
